CHAPTER LI
But neither to C’hi nor to Yamei herself did Sên speak of his great desire. For his mother’s sake he would not, until her grieved anxiety over Ivy had passed.
They had not spoken of it, but Ruben knew that his mother was suffering; almost knew how much she was suffering, so close and fine was the chord between them.
The Gaylors had been in Dorset since early June. Ivy had wished it. And what Ivy wished Gaylor wished as heartily now. Her motherhood had given them a second and a better honeymoon. And in their closeness, and the tenderer ardor of his new loving of her, Ivy’s bitterness had lost something of its edge. But she had no wish for her mother, wrote but scantily, and never had referred to her approaching confinement to her mother. Mrs. Sên’s cut was deep and sore, but she bore it in silence.
Tom knew, and rejoiced. The professional officials of the nearing event—nurses and physician—had been engaged, but beyond that Lady Snow was Ivy Gaylor’s only confidante. Ruby Sên was shut out from all part or place in the crown-hour of her daughter’s life, held at arm’s length from the coming of her first grandchild. It was aging her.
Ruben kept very close to his mother and heaped his love about her, or she must have “carried on” less bravely.
How would Sên King-lo have dealt with it—with Ivy, whom he had so loved—now? Ruby Sên wondered. She longed for him.
Charles Snow wondered too and was glad that King-lo had gone on.
Lady Snow, reticent as she always was when she believed it wisest or kindest, had said nothing to Sir Charles. But he had gathered a handful of tiny straws and had understood.
Ruben too had divined it.
Ruben understood and saw what Ivy was doing to their mother, and he blamed his sister harshly. Sir Charles, too, understood, but he did not blame Ivy. He had learned to blame no one for what they could not resist; it was many years since he had.
When—the day before she went to Dorset, as she had promised Ivy she would, early in October—Emma spoke of it to him directly, and for the first time, Snow made no comment except a slow sigh. His wife put her hand on his shoulder as she stood beside his chair, left her hand so a lingering moment, and said no more.
For several weeks Sên saw a little less of the C’his than formerly. He would not leave his mother more than she made him.
Mrs. Sên had neither dropped nor slighted Miss C’hi. That was an impossibility both for good manners and personal fairness. Miss C’hi had met her as accidentally as she had met Miss C’hi. The cordial advances of their first acquaintance had been made by her, not by Miss C’hi. The girl had never in the least pushed the acquaintance—almost had met it with reserve. She had returned Mrs. Sên’s calls—always formally. The C’his had returned Mrs. Sên’s invitations. Nothing more than that.
They had dined with the C’his twice in the Westminster house that C’hi Ng Yelü had kept in his tenancy for many years. Each time there had been many other guests and Mr. Sên had not taken the young hostess in to dinner, or been seated near her.
Miss C’hi had no chaperon but her father in Europe. “Shades of China!” Snow had said to C’hi with a laugh; and C’hi, enfranchised and citizen of the World now, had chuckled his assent that probably all the gods of China—and certainly Etiquette-god—were athirst for his disobedient blood.
Towards Mrs. Sên, as indeed to every one, the Chinese girl had held herself perfectly: courteous, pleasant, a little cold. Ruby Sên was too well-bred, and she was too essentially a nice woman, to cold-shoulder now in any way the girl she had courted at their first meetings.
Mrs. Sên could only wait.
She knew what Ruben wished and that he intended to win it if he could; knew it as certainly as if he had told her.
Each day she expected that Ruben would bring her his great news and she steeled herself to meet it, less disturbed at its prospect, less mother-jealous of her boy’s new love than she would have been, if she were not so absorbed in her grieving at Ivy’s estrangement from her, or been less torn and jangled by what she feared the child’s birth might do to Ivy—what Ivy’s revulsion might be when Ivy saw her baby’s face.
But Ruben Sên did not intend to bring any added “pull” of joy or sorrow to his mother until she was less troubled.
He knew that she must come to love Yamei very dearly, if he gave that daughter to her. He thought that he had kept his radiant secret well—even from his mother—the secret that he had broadcast to every social receiver in Mayfair, Kensington, Hampstead and half the Counties.
In mid-October Gaylor wired to Mrs. Sên, “My daughter is magnificent and she has a fine soprano. Both well.”
Ruby Sên hid her face in her shaking hands and sobbing pitifully prayed as she had not prayed before.
She was alone—with it.
Ruben had gone on an errand for her half an hour ago.